


Born Sick

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Child Abuse, Drug Abuse, Gen, Homelessness, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-26
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-19 14:24:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3613290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire is fifteen and has just watched his entire life die, quite literally, in front of him. Alone, with an envelope of pictures in his bag, he stumbles across Jehan and Éponine fighting to keep a secret. The duo take him into their little world. On the fringes of society, shunned and abused, the trio fight for their lives. </p><p>(Note -- the fic spans several years with time skips, jumps and stutters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pack Your Bags.

"Pack your bags.”

The voice came from a far way away, beyond the music and the fog in his head. It was rough, course, felt like sandpaper against his ears. He tried to ignore it, but it came again. 

“Pack your _fucking_ bags.” 

Grantaire realised that his father was standing in the doorway to his bedroom. The teenage space was full of stale cigarettes, books piled taller than his head, clothes strewn everywhere. He blinked at the mass of man talking to him. 

“What? Why?” His voice sounded strange, he sounded high. He knew it. 

His father, red rimmed eyes and several days of growth on his chin, didn't seem to notice, or didn't care. Instead, he rubbed a hand over his face and growled. “Pack your _fucking_ bags this instant. We _need_ to leave.” 

Slowly, Grantaire realised what was happening. His father had picked up yet more debts, another loan or another bad night at a casino, and they needed to leave before someone came and smashed both their heads in. Well, his father was primarily concerned about his head, and Grantaire was indifferent to the situation. 

Yet, at fifteen years old, he'd done this three times that he could remember. There must have been times before, back when his mother was alive. But he didn't remember anything from back then, he tried not to. 

“Okay,” he answered sluggishly, “I’ll do my things. Can I take my books?” 

He father nodded distractedly. “If you can carry it, we can take it.” 

That was good news. Looking around the room, Grantaire realised he didn't have much to carry. He stood up and yanked the soft sided suitcase from atop his wardrobe down, onto his bed and started piling books into it. His clothes lay strewn around the room, but his battered paperbacks were in neat piles. 

The clothes in the wardrobe were easiest to pile in next. Socks went into the gaps between books, then his somewhat clean boxers piled on top before he shoved his jeans and ratty band shirts. 

Into a canvas - Ed Hardy, the one with the snarling tiger - messenger bag he crammed two note books filled with half drawn figures and, pulled carefully from inside his pillowcase, an envelope of polaroid and printed photos. The envelope was falling apart, splitting at the folds, but Grantaire couldn't get rid of it. 

He placed it gently into the inside of one of the notebooks, and crammed the sketching pencil collection he'd shoplifted, as well as the pocket size watercolour set and coloured pencils. Once he was sure his father was gone, he reached under his mattress and pulled out a small plastic bag. Half full of bud, he tossed it into a beanie and wrapped that up with another. 

With that all packed, his room looked neater than it had done since they'd arrived. The bare walls and stained carpet felt empty now, the messy bedspread and several half-full ashtrays were the only reminds of his presence. 

Stepping out of his room, Grantaire could feel the electricity in the air. The same as last time, and the time before that, and the time before that, too. It was spicy, sweat stained and painful. The air felt tight; his father was cursing to himself loud enough for Grantaire to hear it from outside his door. 

“Dad?” His voice was too high, too highly strung. 

There was a moment of silence. 

“I'm done.” 

The door was wrenched open, his father’s bloodshot eyes looked back at him. Then, a false smile spread over his face. “Good, good. Give me a second. Take your things to the car.” 

Grantaire nodded, placing one hand on the handle of his suitcase and the other on the strap of the messenger bag at his feet. He swung the bag over his shoulder and the door to his father’s room shut again. Carefully, he picked up his suitcase and staggered down the hallway to the front door of the house. 

He pulled the suitcase with him and let the door shut with a bang, sharp and heavy sounding. The finality of the situation resounded inside his head, the light on the street was dim and electric, everything was happening too fast and he was losing time. 

The door opened behind him and his father’s rough voice broke his silent reverie. “What the fuck do you think you're doing. I said get in the car.” 

Grantaire snapped to attention, like a solder. He grasped his bag and tugged it down the steps to the street. The Lexus was sitting outside, parked hurriedly against the curb at an angle. His father tore open the boot and shoved several bags inside, grabbed Grantaire’s suitcase and threw it in alongside his own. 

“Get in.” 

Grantaire opened the passenger door and slid quietly into the seat. He was dwarfed by it, by the big leather seats built to fit adult men. He tugged his bag off and settled it between his feet before his father clambered into the other side of the car. The engine started before Grantaire could put his seatbelt on. 

They glided out of the parking space, onto the silent road. It was dusk, the sun had probably only just set. Grantaire guessed it was about seven, or maybe eight. He wasn't sure, not really. 

The streets blurred as Grantaire sat in the car, watching the world move around him. He was certain that he was not the one moving, everything else was. Time skipped around him and suddenly it was pitch black and they were on a motorway, speeding alongside red lights and yellow blinking ones. They were break lights, Grantaire realised. His head was starting to hurt and he felt sick. 

“I feel sick.” He muttered. 

His father ignored him. 

“Dad, I feel sick.” 

“We can't stop.” 

“Dad… Dad, please.” He begged, his voice cracking. He was going to cry, his stomach was roiling and his head pounded. “I'm gonna be sick.” 

His father’s eyes snapped to him, bloodshot and enraged. He glared at his son, jaw set and eyes like fire. “Don't do it, Grantaire. I swear to God, if you are sick I will fucking kill you.” 

“Plea-” 

His father’s hand reached out and smacked him across the face, a fist twice the size of Grantaire’s own, and a sharp stinging in his mouth and nose. The stinging faded into a burning heat, his eyes glossed over and he could taste metal. 

Silence. 

“Oh, fuck.” His father muttered, slamming his palm against the wheel. “You made me miss the fucking turn.” 

Grantaire didn't say anything, he hung his head and felt the pain sharpen again. The tears that fell unbidden from his eyes stung too, but mostly they were just wet. He tore a ragged breath through his lips and tried to breathe through his nose. Instead, he made a wet spluttering sound. Nosebleed. 

His father turned to him and pulled a disgusted face. The sheer contempt that crossed between them in that second chilled Grantaire to the bone. 

That was when he noticed the truck. 

“Dad! Loo-” 

Too late.


	2. The Ward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire has an interesting conversation with a nurse and a pair of social workers.

His head hurt. His body hurt. He was pretty sure he was purely made up of nerves designed to feel only pain. He groaned, it seemed to be the only noise he could make.

Grantaire’s eyes slipped open. He was blinded by the harsh lights above his head and he groaned again, feeling his heartbeat in his ears. It was like a particularly bad hangover. 

The light was blocked out by a figure who, once Grantaire focused on her, was an elderly woman with a wrinkled face and sagging breasts. She smiled at him kindly. “Hello there.” 

“Mngh.” 

She reached forward and helped him to sit up. That hurt his aching limbs more, but his face felt like he'd gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson when he moved his mouth. 

“Right, there you go.” She smiled brightly at him, “How are you feeling? One finger up for ok, ten for not at all ok.” 

He raised one hand, five fingers splayed. Then after a second or so of thought added another two. 

“Seven. Well, that's good.” 

Good? Really? 

She must have read something in his face because she clucked over him. “Do you remember the accident?” 

Grantaire thought about it. He remembered being socked in the mouth by his father and packing his bags, and… And the truck. He nodded, slowly. 

“Whem.” His voice gave out on him. The nurse help up one finger and bustled off for a second. She came back with a glass of clear water which she handed to Grantaire. He drank with both hands on the cold glass, spilling most of the liquid down his chin. 

He paused and tried again. “Where's my dad?” The voice that left his lips was horse, ragged. He sounded like he'd smoked too many cigarettes or drank too much of his father’s vodka. 

The nurse’s eyebrows shot up, but settled. She took a breath. 

Grantaire didn't want to hear this. 

“I'm afraid he died at the scene.” 

Grantaire did not want to hear that at all. The room span a little, his breathing slipped and he found himself unable to get enough air. His chest hurt, the room span, his breathing was loud, his head hurt, his chest was so tight, he couldn't breathe… 

A hand was placed on his arm, softly. He jerked from the touch, leaning away from the woman. His body was on fire, the pain in his muscles intensified. “Shh, take a deep breath,” she crooned, “breathe with me. Give me the glass, good. One, two…” 

Her voice anchored him as he breathed with her slow counting. He held his breath when she asked him to, and exhaled when she told him to. He sat still, counting his own breathing for a long while. The woman didn't leave, she stood by his bed and waited for him to calm down. 

“I'm sorry, Grantaire.” 

He blinked at her. “My name…” 

She smiled sadly, “Your dad had your passports with him. And train tickets, to Paris.” 

Paris… They were going to Paris? Grantaire couldn't take it in, his father hated Paris. But then, he realised, where better to hide than in a crowd? And you could get to anywhere from Paris. 

“Did you know you were going to Paris?” She asked, softly. 

He nodded. Lying was just one of his many bad habits. “To see his friend…” 

“And this friend,” she smiled, just a little too politely, “where are they now?” 

He shrugged with one arm, “Paris, I guess.” 

The nurse nodded. She patted the pillow behind him, “Why don't you go to sleep? You must be tired.” 

He was, he realised, incredibly tired, in huge amounts of pain and judging by the state of his head, on a huge amount of drugs. He nodded and slid down, covering himself with the thin blanket. 

“Oh,” the nurse said, just remembering as she turned to leave, “you were incredibly lucky. Not a scratch on you, except for your face.” 

Grantaire nodded, sorely tempted to point out that the crash hadn't done the damage to his face. Instead he pulled the covers over his head and tried to block out the light. 

He dozed fitfully for a few hours, but each time he woke to the clashing of metal on metal with a racing pulse. He gave up trying to sleep and lay under the blanket, letting his breath heat the small space until it was unbearable. He sat up again, less aching in his muscles this time, and watched the room. 

There were two men standing a few feet from the end of his bed. They were talking to each other in low voices and Grantaire heard his name. The younger man looked at him, and said something to the older man. Both were fairly old, one maybe early thirties and the other late fifties. They both wore suits, the older wore black with a white shirt and no tie, the younger wore grey with a slightly tinged pink shirt and a bright salmon tie. 

They approached him together. “Hello,” said the older one, taking a seat in one of the blue plastic chairs lined up next to the bed, “my name is Alex, and this is David.” 

Grantaire nodded, “Ok.” 

"I'm sorry for your loss, the nurse told us you didn't know." 

Grantaire dropped his eyes to the covers. "No." 

David, clean shaven with brown hair and dead brown eyes, spoke next. “Grant, look, there is no easy way for us to tell you this. You're a ward of the state now, son.” 

Grantaire looked at him blankly. 

Alex spoke, all twinkling blue eyes and (faded to white at the roots) blonde hair. “I know that sounds scary, but all it really means it that the Government has to look after you now. You're a minor, and we’re doing our best to find your family.” 

“You're social workers.” 

“Yes.” 

“I don't want to go into care.” 

Alex smiled sympathetically, “No one does. That's why we’re here. We want to help you. Mind if we ask some questions?” 

Grantaire shook his head. 

“Good,” Alex nodded, “What’s your name?” 

“Grantaire.” 

“How old are you Grantaire?” 

“Fifteen.” 

“Where do you live?” 

“Saint Cyr-sur-Mer. At least, I did live there.” 

Alex smiled, but his eyebrows cinched together. “Do you know where you are now?” 

Grantaire shook his head. 

“Toulon.” 

“The station… It's just… It's not far.” Grantaire said quietly. 

“The station?” David asked. 

Grantaire half shrugged. “We… Um, we're going to Paris.” 

David’s dead eyes reflected the neon of the lights, but Alex’s lit up. “Why Paris?” 

“Dad’s friend.” 

“His friend?” 

Grantaire nodded. “In Paris.” 

“Your father had a friend in Paris you were going to see.” 

The boy nodded again. His head was starting to hurt, a tight hot feeling around his eyes and jaw. Alex could see the uncomfortable way Grantaire was focusing on the men, he turned to David. “Can you get me a coffee?” He looked at Grantaire, “Anything you want?” 

Grantaire shook his head. 

“Ok. Just a coffee.” 

David turned silently on his heel and walked out of the room, a heavy silence followed his departure. Alex smiled at Grantaire but let the silence continue for a while. 

Eventually, Grantaire asked, “Where's my stuff?” 

Alex’s eyebrows connected as he frowned, thinking about the question. “I don't know but I'm sure we can find it all for you.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Do you know when you're getting out of here?” Alex asked, softly. 

Grantaire shook his head. 

“Ah. It's only a few days away. We have a place set up for you, a foster home until we can get in contact with someone in your family.” 

“My mum’s dead.” Grantaire stated, “My dad’s family hated him. There's no one you can find to take me.” 

Alex’s face contorted. “I… You have an aunt on your mother’s side we’re trying to talk to.” 

“My mum’s aunt. My great aunt? She's…” 

“Old. I know. But it's better than nothing, isn't it?” 

Grantaire nodded. The silence fell again. Grantaire actually didn't dislike Alex, even though David made him more uncomfortable than he was already. The older man had a paternal aura about him, he was kind and seemed to genuinely care. 

David walked back into the room, cup of hot coffee in his hand. He passed it to Alex and took a seat in the plastic chair he had vacated earlier. Much too close to the bed. 

“Can… I really want my stuff.” A cigarette and a joint would probably make this whole thing so much more bearable. 

“We’ll find it for you. But you look tired, so we’re going to try and contact your au- great aunt a few more times. We’ll be back though, and when you get out of bed we’ll take you to a foster home. It's a great place, they have a few kids of their own, a girl about your age, and I think there's a child they've had for a while… Again, about your age.” He smiled, a genuine smile, “Until I see you again, you have my best wishes.” 

“Thanks.” Grantaire muttered. 

Both the men stood up and left him. Once the heavy wooden door had shut, Grantaire felt his entire body sag, collapsing back into the bed. The covers were still warm, so Grantaire pulled them over his head again and tried to go back to sleep. 

God, having a cigarette would have made this all so much easier.


	3. Freedom?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire gets out of hospital. But is the place he's heading worse?

The next few days passed in a whirl of boredom and introspection for Grantaire. His bags hadn't been returned to him, and all but one of the nurses couldn’t talk to him without that disgusting pity in their voices. He loathed it, recalling it from the months after his mother’s death… People that didn't know him were saying they were sorry. He almost laughed at it, almost.

Just before dinner – boiled chicken, boiled carrots and boiled potatoes – on the fifth day Grantaire had been at the hospital, he was handed a change of clothes by a young brunet nurse called Henri. He was cool, sort of. He'd slipped Grantaire a pack of cheap cigarettes and told him how to get to the balcony without being seen by any of the senior staff.

“What's this for?”

“Get out the scrubs, kiddo. You're going after dinner. Those guys came back. One of them has a cool bag, there's a tiger on it… Is that yours?”

Grantaire nodded. “Can I go… Like, get my bag?”

“You wanna go down in that?” Henri asked, raising an eyebrow.

Grantaire was wearing an old shirt from the lost and found, and some of Henri’s own jogging bottoms which had been thrust at him on the second day. Grantaire thought for a second before he shook his head.

“Didn't think so.” Henri laughed. He glanced at his watch and cursed. “Gotta go. I'm doing rounds!”

“Bye Henri.”

“Goodbye Grantaire.” Henri smiled, “keep the trousers. I don't need them.”

Grantaire glanced down at the baggy grey material. They were hoisted up to his waist and still too big, his slim frame made the size difference a lot more noticeable. “But they're too big for me…”

Henri shrugged, “You’ll grow into them.”

“Thank you.”

"No problem, kiddo. I gotta run but I hope I see you again.” Henri near sprinted out of the door as he shouted over his shoulder, “Check under your pillow.”

Grantaire did, sliding his hand under the cool material. His fingers brushed a box and he tugged it out. A new carton of cigarettes. Grantaire decided he did like Henri after all.

After tugging the stained, slightly too small shirt off. Grantaire slipped into a hoodie which had “SUPERDRY” printed across the back of it. He slipped his gifted cigarettes into the jogging bottom pockets, one had the full pack and one had the nearly empty pack.

Just as he did that, the door opened and Alex strolled in. His walk as slightly lopsided, he leaned to the left. He smiled at Grantaire. “You've been told.”

“Henri told me. He's a nurse.”

“You made a friend.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“David is filling in your release forms, so here's your bag.” Alex swung the bag off of his shoulder and held it out for Grantaire who collected it with both hands. Alex smiled at him and Grantaire smiled back.

Slipping his scuffed Doctor Martin boots on, Grantaire checked the bag for the notebooks and beanies. No one seemed to have touched any of it. The envelope was still in there, and the beanies had a soft crackle of plastic when he squeezed them. Good.

“Um, can we go now? Only I don't particularly like the food here…” That was all true, and he was dying to get out of the sterile stench and cold air conditioned air.

Alex nodded, waiting for Grantaire to collect his meagre possessions. The boy shoved them all into the bag and turned to the old man. They walked out of the room together, silence that was neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. It was natural. They didn't have anything to talk about, not really.

“The family… What are they like?”

“The Thénardiers?” Alex shook his head, “Nice enough. Big house. Big family. Big people… Well, the wife is for sure.”

Grantaire ignored the comment, biting his tongue to refrain from telling Alex he was kind of an asshole for saying something like that. Especially considering he was talking to a kid who was supposed to trust him.

“They've got another kid with them at the moment… Shouldn't be an issue though. I mean, there's four or five kids in the house at any time.” Alex continued obliviously.

They reached the reception, all glass windows and bright lights. David stood, a dark suited smudge talking to the receptionist. Grantaire walked straight past him, Alex didn't even slow his lilting gait but David peeled off and followed them outside. A dull sky greeted them, grey blue and cloudy.

Alex guided him towards a car, a beat up Mercedes. The dull silver paint was kind of scratched and the seats looked like they'd had a few too many years of angry kids in the back. Grantaire climbed in, watching the hospital from the window as the men placed themselves in the front seats. Alex turned on the radio, some pop channel that Grantaire had no interest in. The music drowned any need for conversation.

The car drove slowly, well, David drove slowly. He obeyed every traffic law, unlike Grantaire’s father. The ride was a strange one, Alex hummed along to the music and David seemed unimpressed by everything. Grantaire pulled his notebook, the important one, out of his bag and set it on his knees. The envelope was safe in the centrefold, untouched as far as he could tell, and the pencil sketches he had roughed out weren't smudged or creased at all. It really didn't seem like anyone had touched his things.

They pulled over too soon, barely twenty minutes from the hospital. The street they were on was shabby, but not in a bad neighbourhood as far as Grantaire could tell. A shiver ran through him though, when he looked out over the overgrown garden and the crumbling wall.

Reluctantly, he got out of the car and followed Alex up the pathway. The house was two stories, red brick and ugly. Built in order to fulfil some housing need, not really for any aesthetic purposes. Still, he didn't complain. It was better than the flat he and his father had shared.

David appeared behind them with Grantaire's black suitcase in hand, just as the green painted door was being pulled open by a skinny little man. Rat faced, gingery blonde and pale, the man looked like Grantaire’s each image of what a foster parent should look like. He smiled, a slick smile that didn't quite meet his eyes, at both Alex and David, but didn't even glance at Grantaire.

“Monsieur, Monsieur, come in.” He held the door open and Grantaire walked between the men, frogmarched into his new home. “It is a pleasure to see you both again.”

They were directed into the front room where a sagging couch and worn armchair were facing a brand new TV set. A cheap table was placed between the couch and the tv, piled high with gossip magazines and tobacco packs. An emptied ashtray sat ready for the next lot of cigarettes butts to be put out into it, the tv remotes – three of them – were piled atop each other. It was homely, but not home.

“And you,” Alex said, the twinkle in his eye making Grantaire’s stomach churn here. “How is the wife?”

The man waved his hand, “She is well. Still upset about the pretty blonde thing you brought us leaving so suddenly… Tsk.”

David nodded, “She was lucky, huh?”

“Too lucky.” The man agreed. “But this young lad… Well,” his eyes ran over Grantaire, calculators and cold, “he will be a good fit here.”

Just then, a heavy figured woman bustled into the room. She was taller than her husband, dyed hair that was showing at the roots, a red face from overdriving and over eating, she beamed at both the social workers. “Ah! David!” She pronounced it with a thick french accent, dah-veed, “Alex!” Ah-leex.

David offered his hand and she took it, Alex kissed her cheek and she beamed again. Suddenly, she seemed to notice Grantaire standing in the corner of the room. “This is the poor boy?”

“Hello, Monsieur, Madam.” "Ah, so polite. Good boy.” The woman smiled at him. “Come, come. I will show you your room and introduce you to the others.”

Grantaire followed her like a lost puppy, trailing behind her heels as she walked up the stairs. She took him to the last room on the corridor and threw the door open.

Blinking in the light was a boy, about Grantaire’s own age. Close cropped fiery ginger hair and freckles across his face. He was perched on the bottom of a bunk bed. There was a single bed shoved into the other corner of the room, but there seemed to be a lump in covers curled up on it.

“Jean. Is that Gavroche?” The woman asked, her tone noticeably changing.

The boy nodded, a sharp tilt of his head. It was clear to see that this bird boned child wasn't related to the woman at all; his eyes were a fantastic green behind smudged glasses, his clothes were obviously hand me downs, patched across the knees and torn through at the collar. He looked over Grantaire, smiled faintly, and went back to the book he had open on the bed.

“Here is Jean. You take the top. Gavroche is over there. My son.” She said the word son with distaste, a displeasure at having to utter it. Grantaire felt his stomach churn again. A deep unease settled in his bones as she walked away.

Jean didn't look up, “Close the door.”

Grantaire stepped into the bedroom and shut the door softly behind him. “It's ok ‘Ponine.”

The covers on the bed were thrown back and a black haired girl scrambled off of the mattress. She was smaller still than Jean, although her smallness was combatted by the swiftness of her movements. Jean was slow, lethargic almost, in the way he moved and spoke. The girl was not.

“You're the new kid, huh? I'm Éponine, ‘Ponine to people I like. That was my ma, my brother is Gavroche. He takes that bed when he's home. He's only 12 but he’ll beat you up. What happened to your face?”

The barrage of information froze Grantaire. He raised his hand to his lips, they were still swollen, his nose still hurt sometimes but the majority of the bruises had come and gone. “I… Uh, got hit. By a truck.”

“A truck? How are you alive?”

“I was in a car.”

“We're you driving?”

Grantaire shook his head. “No, my dad was… Um. He's, he’s dead now.”

“Oh. Sucks.” The girl grimaced. “Car crash isn't a pretty way to go. I saw one once…”

“Shut up ‘Ponine.” Jean muttered. “Kid’s just got here. Give him some space.”

“Jehan I swear to God, I am going to punch you.” Éponine growled, “I wasn't doing anything.”

Grantaire watched as the two bickered, Jean – Jehan? – not looking up from the book and Éponine not looking back at Grantaire. Jean closed the book and looked at Grantaire over the top of his glasses. “You're what? Fifteen?”

“Yeah.”

"We’re both fourteen. I'm Jehan, not Jean. If you call me Jean, Éponine will punch you.” The girl grinned, showing her teeth off and curling one fist into the palm of her other hand. “This will take some getting used to. But there's some rules to make it easier. One, don't touch my stuff. Two, don't tell anyone Éponine comes in here. Three, if you want it kept secret you pay.”

“So pay me.” Grantaire said.

Éponine stepped forwards, “For what?”

“You're not meant to be here, but you are. And you want me to keep it a secret. So, pay me.”

“I like him.” Éponine smirked, looking back at Jehan.

He nodded, “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Admittedly, my HC Jehan is a long haired flower child who uses they/them (like me!) but as this story is told from Grantaire's understanding, although not his narration, I'm using he/him until Grantaire becomes otherwise informed. It should be the next chapter or so, unless my rough planning deteriorates. 
> 
> Also, I HC Éponine as Asian on her mother's side but I'm gonna leave that loose and open to interpretation as I know other people won't share that at all.


End file.
